El Paso, 3:12 AM The lights on I-10 blur as Nacho speeds west, one hand clamped over the wound in his side, the other gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.Behind him? A trail of bodies. Ahead of him? Nothing but silence and border wind.The adrenaline is burning off now. Pain is creeping in. Sharp. Cold. Real.

His eyes flick up to the rearview mirror. No headlights. Not yet. But they’ll come. They always come. He swerves off the highway—gravel crunching under the tires of a rust-bitten El Camino he hotwired near a cantina ten miles back. The engine hisses like it’s about to die. So is he, maybe.

He kills the lights. Rolls the car behind an old chain link fence next to a burned-out gas station. Desert wind whistles through shattered glass. Nacho grabs the gun. Checks the mag. Five rounds. That’ll have to be enough.

He drags himself into the back of the station. Empty shelves. Broken floor tiles. Coyote tracks in the dust. He leans against the wall and breathes through gritted teeth. He should be dead. He was supposed to be dead. The call was made. The trap was perfect. But they underestimated him. Again.

And now? He’s in El Paso. No name. No papers. No past. Just a man bleeding out in a ghost town, trying to stay one step ahead of the next bullet